Minima Maxima Sunt
by BackwardEdge
Summary: It's the smallest things that are the most important and Legate Barnabas Quintillus is reminded of this fact the hard way. [Oneshot]


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**Disclaimer:  
**TES : Skyrim related characters and content all belong to Bethesda. Legate Barnabas Quintillus, here, belongs to me. Take him, and I will start docking fingers.

**Authors Note:  
**So, I was asked just how Barnabas is capable of being so... attune, and mathematical but cannot cast spells to same extent - which got me thinking, really. As a general rule in TES, intelligence is perceived as being magical, aka, if your smart, you can toss a few spells around. After explaining, I had an idea for a oneshot. A sweet little dive into the mind of Barnabas Quintillus, if you will.

Which of course then diverted into an explanation into just how much of a Tullius fan I am. *Sigh* Oh, and if you want an explanation - it's after the events of Helgen.

This fic is devoted to The Specified Example, you wanted some Tullius and Barnabas bro time? Fine HERE. Take it. Though, I don't think this fits the definition of "Bro time" but meh, you can get what you are given. I'm a shitbag, I know.

**Warnings:  
**Rated a reasonably high T for language, violence and deep descriptions into what I can only describe as Barnabas' special brand of insanity.

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******Minima Maxima Sunt **

You would think that after seventy three separate incidents like this, that he would realise. Of course, you would.

It's dark still and you shift forwards to lean your elbows against the varnished finish of the table below you. Directly under your elbow lies the spider-web shard crack, that, you dully recall was from incident seventy one. From where the General had slammed his glass of Colovian brandy into the wood grain with such force, that it shattered the varnish into a display of connecting lines. You trace them, the small indentations and remind yourself of it's presence. From experience, you also know that when the mid-morning sun manages to peak through the crack in the keep's doors, that it will reflect against the table just so that it makes the crack shine a dim orange twinkle. Seven hours and thirty three minutes away from now. Yes.

You are a man of small details, so of course, you notice these things.

Thirty two.

Some part of you realises just how significant that number is, thirty two years. Thirty two days. Thirty two hours. It's all very distracting, you make to find something in which will take your mind awa-

Then he half snores, and you freeze.

There is no danger of course, oh you know that. You do not consider General Tullius to be dangerous, not when he is asleep, at any rate. When concious, there is a degree of danger that even a man like you cannot shake. It's a subtle feeling, one you cannot react to and you know it. After all it's only natural, to be weary of your superiors.

You have four hundred and eighty men- no, _had_ four hundred and eighty men, who all have that subtle feeling. The events in Dawnstar, thirty five men. Helgen, twelve men. Then there are the Legionaries in the forts, who succumb to tetanus and raids and other strifes - twenty nine men. This, is not counting those who perished afterwards or who where discharged honourably. You have Four hundred and twenty men under your command.

They in some form of way, fear you for your rank. Because you have a few medals and a different uniform, a higher pay grade, you have the ability to make or break them. To control those Four hundred and twenty, to send them to their deaths, or their salvations. As is the way of the military hierarchy.

But that number will drop, it always does.

Seven hours and twenty nine minutes.

The General remains slumped over the table, his arms folded not to provide some form of comfort - for you know that is not true, but so that the man's bracers directly cover that particular crook of his neck, covering both the internal and the external arteries, alongside the jugular veins, protecting them. It's not a full proof position, for you could simply apply a nudge to the man's head and such vital points would be exposed to the open, but this, you do not do. Instead you merely observe as the Military Governor cycles through his standard period of REM - of which he is seven minutes and nine sec- ten seconds in - watching as those very same jugular veins and arteries pump blood out and into his brain, steadily, you note this from his breathing.

It would be incredibly easy for you to end him here, right now, and when you were younger you believed it was so you could do so at his most vulnerable. Now it's far different, thirty two years onwards. For after those years of subtle observation and understanding, you know that General Gaius Tullius is not vulnerable in standard description. Even though you have the element of surprise, and the ability to overpower him in a straight up battle of raw physical power - he is not vulnerable.

Six hours and fifty seven minutes.

He doesn't have his Praetorians either, neither do you. You'll have to wait to get reinforcements. Because of this absence, the room feels emptier.

Fifty six minutes, now.

You blink when you realise just how much he looks like crap, even in this low light, you can see that the normally immaculate bronzed cuirass is dented and scratched. You cannot however see the faint sprays of blood - none of it is his, you had checked that fact yourself. The left hand flick of the Imperial insignia has somehow chipped off, and the crimson fabric has been pulled into deformity, but aside from that, his uniform is otherwise intact. There's a charcoal kissed bruise on his upper right cheekbone and a conspicuous red gash just under his hairline, where the sweat greases the roots of his hair. The strands of iron are clinging gleefully to his forehead, but you of course, still notice the mark anyway. In times like this, you notice everything.

The subtle hand clench, the developing frown, yes those too. Some part of his concious knows something is wrong. Six hours and fifty three minutes, and you notice way the thumb on his sword hand twitches. You lean forwards and spy the numerous blisters, having become raw with heat. His fingertips are blackened with that same charred dust and there are shards of what you assume to be wood embedded in the pads of his fingers and his palm.

You look down at your own hands, it's a similar picture. Not completely the same, your hands have long since outgrown his and your little finger on your right hand is permanently bent from Incident number sixty three.

You both have scratches, perhaps a few burns, and you will both look undoubtedly older then a the day prior, but that's ok - because you are both ok. In some regard.

The chair you sit upon creaks as you lean backwards, taking in the dull eerie quiet that, like everything, you've slowly come accustomed too. If you was to listen hard enough, you would be able to hear the sound of patrols, of the guards stood on post but at this hour, (Six hours and fifty minutes to go.) the drip, drip, dripping of light rainfall masks all other sounds of military presence.

Tullius grunts, and his right forearm flicks outwards, but aside from the pained facial expression, the man does not awaken. He's grown accustomed to having you within arm's reach most nights, and really, you have in return. Thirteen times, you have awoken from random bouts of slumber and bounded straight into panic, just because he's not in the room. Really, they should not be asleep in here full stop, but you have a horrible habit of working to nigh on exhaustion and Tullius - he doesn't care either way. He's a fitful sleeper no matter where he happens to collapse.

When you where younger, you used to hate being in the same Century. The man was a terrible sleeper, and you recall that at one point, you had threatened to wake him up with a pillow against his face if he didn't settle down and shut up.

He had punched you in the rectus abdominis for that, and you where unable to stand upright for just short of a week. You where far from formidable at that age.

Six hours and forty five minutes.

The clotted blood has long since reabsorbed under your skin, but you can still picture it there. He often pretends that he doesn't know what you are on about, when you bring it up. Him doing this either for his or your own benefit, you don't exactly know. He knows you do not remember most of it, the war, and the General has been known for leaving out some of your more... 'finer', moments of his wartime career in hopes that you never will do. Tullius often says that the past is irrelevant, but to a man who functions on knowing everything, understanding everything, it is a nuisance.

You had reminded him of this fact, of course, but he didn't punch you that time.

Six hours and fort...

You frown, you have lost count musing.

Because you function on detail, on calculations and on observations, the part of your mind that keeps check on the time furiously racks for your last thought process. You could just look at the pocket watch you keep attached to your belt in order to see the time, but the idea that you have, yet again, allowed yourself to become distracted by careless thought sends your nerves to fry. You have been told, several times, that you turn intolerably stupid when you get angry, and the at least six of those seventy three incidents prove such the case. The Battle of Red Ring, the Restricted Force Incident, the Self Defence case, Fort Southwind, Hegen...

CRASH.

Furiously, you send a hand down against the General's neck with the trained violence that can, if you so wish, completely snap bones. He jerks awake close to instantly, his own trained mined alerting him to the imminent danger above him. Both of his hands grab at your own, at the grip blocking all air and blood travelling into his head. You can almost see his nervous system springing panic up into his limbs, his heart rate crashing upwards.

Incident seventy four and the General can't quite pull your hand off. Then, his eyes are open and everything grounds to an unnerving halt.

"Legate!" He half chokes, and you freeze again. That all to familiar sense of danger is creeping up your spine.

Because you are a soldier first-most more then anything, you know the repercussions of such an action. It's not the first time you have lashed out at someone, at him, but there is a strict reason for it and that is the nightmares. They have been tolerated before, because it's not your fault. You pause, hastily slip on a mask of panic - you should let go. You need to let go, but you do not and he stays there, half collapsed in his chair, his throat gagging and his eyes narrowed with an emotion you cannot completely name without becoming confused. The General's face becomes flushed and around your hand, where the pressure is at it's height, the skin around his neck turns a veritable purple hue. Another half gasp, and he thumps you weakly in the upper arm.

"Barnabas, let GO."

Another glance at his face and his lips are turning blue, similarly to self-asphyxiation, your hands loosen without fail and it seems you could never actually end him yourself if you tried. Not that you where trying.

...right?

You fall back into your chair as Tullius jerks forwards to plant himself against the table, coughing, spluttering and inhaling rapidly, taking in massive amounts of air as he does so. Thirty one seconds of this and the heaving takes over and you glance at him weakly when you note the smell of stomach acid. He does not throw up however and a minute and seven seconds later he has everything under control. He's still panicked, both you will be for awhile, but he's no longer threatend. "What in Oblivion was THAT all about?!"

You frown, "I didn't... I don't... That wasn't supposed to happen."

"Is that how you respond to a superior officer?!" He barks with some difficulty, but you know it's intended differently then all the other countless times he's said it. His voice his raspy and he presses a tentative hand against the area in which you had crushed. It's different, because if this was any other act of misbehaviour, he'd be up in your face and challenging your judgement. Right now, he needs to know who's in charge of the situation, of you, if he can get you back in line with a simple order, then it's a one way trip.

You both don't want that to happen.

Without a thought, the automatic need to respond to a spoken order takes over, "I'm sorry Sir, I did not intend for that to happen, Sir."

"You better not have," He half-groans and there comes at thundering down the steps, the door is wrenched open and one of the guards comes crashing in. "It's nothing." The General tells him with an alarmingly genuine look of indifference and the man hesitates, "Carry on." Although the Guard is reluctant to leave, he does so eventually, casting one last glance at the slightly less then immaculate looking Tullius and at you, slouched in your chair with a vacant look of shock on your face. The two of you stay in silence for a moment longer, and eventually, once he can breathe right, the General sits back down. He rubs his forehead, then runs his hand through his hair with a grimace on his face.

You are panicking extensively at this point, but, like always your heart rate remains the same. The General could kill you, right now and he'd be well within his rights to do so. By tomorrow morning, you could be looking at the blade of a axe, in the passing milliseconds of your own execution. You could be demoted, or be locked up and have the key thrown away.

But the General fixes you with one of those damned unreadable looks, sighs and shakes his head. Then, you know, but you can't quite believe it. "Was it that bad?"

You nod, technically, it's true.

It better have not been intentional, and you look at your hands for an extended period of time. It better have not been intentional.

"Bloody fetching war." He eventually mutters, stands and gives you one last worried look, "I'll deal with this tomorrow. Go back to sleep, Legate." and with that, he's retreating back into what you assume his is quarters. He'll let it go for now, but tomorrow he'll probably want a full explanation, or not and that typical flair of selfishness festers at the back of your mind, Helgen was a shitstorm after all.

Once he is gone, you look back at pocket watch, check the time and inhale hard.

Fifty five minutes, until tomorrow. Five hours and thirty one minutes until the light shines on that particular spot of desk. Eight hours and forty three minutes until you'll be expected to face the General again. You deflate seven minutes and thirty three seconds later, and stand to make your leave. Anything can happen tomorrow, as far as you are concerned, but at least now you know.

That it wasn't intentional.


End file.
